


Attention Seeking Behaviour

by phipiohsum475



Series: Homo Aceros [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Danger Kink, M/M, time stamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:58:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds himself rushing head first into any and every threat he can find; by Sherlock’s side, he finds plenty. John is chastised, and on one occasion, arrested by Lestrade, for his “fool hardy death wish.”</p>
<p>Time stamp for Homo Aceros. Takes place during chapter 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attention Seeking Behaviour

John lost Sherlock down the alleyway, as the madman detective ran off ahead of him; those long legs striding out from under his outlandish coat. They were chasing after another ridiculous criminal; a challenger, a weak, pathetic, inadequate challenger to Sherlock and his phenomenal intellect. They never seemed to stop trying; in London, there was always a spectacular failure pushing his luck, attempting to engage Sherlock; just so damned sure they’d be the one; the special one; the brilliant one.

It led to some rather high entertainment; some gorgeous adrenaline rushes for John, the high of lording his brilliance over the criminal classes for Sherlock; cases solved for Lestrade. All was well.

But this one, this idiot kept shooting, and John kept running into the shots, towards the gun, towards the danger. It had been four weeks since James had kidnapped him, since he’d felt the high of complete life-threatening peril, and he chased the man with the gun, hoping to find that peak he’d found with James. He cornered the coward, in a back end alley, and affected his sniff and grin with a glorious rage.

“Problem, Harris?” John smirked, insanely seeking the thrill of adrenaline, at the risk of death, if necessary. Harris, their most recent catch, trembled as he aimed the gun at John. Harris’ beige nondescript pouch puffed in terror, attempting to make him look larger.

John grinned dementedly, “Oh, you bloody little boy, do it. Fucking shoot me. I’ve been in Afghanistan; shot before, strapped to a bomb, a vest full of bloody semtex. So do it, you wanker; you’re barely worth my time. I spend my time killing better men that you, you waste of criminal class.” John pulled out his own Browning, hidden under his jacket in the waistband of his slacks. “I’ll even help you, scare you proper.” He aimed at Harris’ knee; a proper injury would keep him from killing again, and John was no murderer; just slightly manic.

Harris’ hand twitched further, but didn’t dare fire; John could read the fear in his eyes as easily as he could read a book. This wouldn’t do; John needed to feel the danger, it was so close, so he continued to taunt and goad him, his addiction spouting ludicrous words from his lips. “Shoot me, you little cowardly tosser. Fuck, you aiming a gun on me is child’s play compared to what I do for fun. “

“Shit! Mate! What the fuck is your problem? You are bloody fucking lunatic; a right psychopath!”

John took a step further, so that Harris’ gun was almost touching his chest; his own pouched flared in aggression. He tucked his gun into the waistband at his back. “So that’s it then; all sweet talk, but can’t pull the trigger?”

With violent force, John was pulled back by his collar; Lestrade stepping around him to cuff Harris. John, mind lost to his craving, all sense and rational thought gone, fought off the man restraining him; a quick elbow to the ribs loosened the man’s grip enough and John shot forward to pull Lestrade off Harris.

“No; he’s fucking mine! He’s supposed to fucking shoot me, I need him to fucking attack me. You can have him when I’m through with him!”

“What the hell, John?!” Lestrade hollered, trying to keep his criminal contained whilst fighting off a seemingly psychotic John.

“Captain Watson, stand down!” a deep voice behind him bellowed, and the aural memory snapped John back to the present. He stopped his struggle against Lestrade, and turned. Sherlock was rubbing his ribcage, and John realized belated that the voice echoing in his ears was his flat mate's. He blinked a few times and shook his head, taking stock of the scene before him.

“Cuff him, too,” Sherlock demanded, and a young constable took her cuffs and restrained John, who, in his hazy surprise, fell pliant under her touch. _What had he just done? Had he seriously taunted a man with a gun aimed to his chest? What was he thinking?_

He allowed the constable to guide him to her vehicle, and sat uncomfortably in the back. He wasn’t sure what he’d be charged with, or if he’d just be thrown in the drunk tank for the night. Now that he was back in his own mind; he understood why Sherlock’d had him handcuffed; he’d been aching for the fight, for danger, so badly he’d been willing to be shot again.

They didn’t know. No one knew. He just needed James. He needed James to threaten him, taunt him with death; with pain; but he couldn’t tell them. He couldn’t tell any of them that all he truly needed was a vicious, fabulous, dangerous fuck from James Moriarty.

John lamented his situation, this new lunacy added to his already complicated life. Lestrade came by, and tried to convince him to go back to therapy, claiming something was severely wrong with him. John responded with grunts and sarcastic laughter. Yes, he’d discovered a terrible truth about himself and James goddamned Moriarty was the one to pull it from him. There was nothing to be done for John.

His life, as he once knew it, was fucking over.


End file.
